


The Conjurer's Chronicle: Narrah Adaar

by thievinghippo



Series: Narrah Adaar [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:19:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories, prompt fics and drabbles involving Narrah Adaar, mage. Blackwall/Adaar will be the focus, but others will show up occasionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

“Inquisitor?”

Adaar looked up from her book and glared at the messenger. She shook out her hands, ignoring the tingle of arcane energy at her fingertips and thought again of Solas. As good as Her Trainer was, Solas helped far more with the mysteries of specializing as a Rift Mage. But there had been no sign of the elf for months.

She had been sitting at the desk for hours, hunched over and as she straightened her spine, and felt every single one of her forty-five years. Sometimes magic simply felt like a young person’s occupation.

“Yes?” she said, her voice clipped with impatience. She would master this spell if it was the last thing she did.

“The spymaster said you were to be informed the moment we had word from Val Chevin.”

The book fell from her lap. Adaar searched the messenger’s face for some clue, some hint which might ease the hammer suddenly pounding her chest. “And what is the word?” she asked quietly. Truth be told, she expected the news quite some time ago, but the Wardens had been silent.

“I don’t know, your Worship,” the messenger said and she heard the truth in his words. “I’m to tell you to go to the Ambassador’s office.”

“Thank you,” Adaar said, picking the book off of the floor. Bad news, she decided, steeling her heart. Why summon her for good news? She stood, trying to banish the image of Blackwall dead from the Joining in her head. Sending him to the Wardens seemed like the right thing to do then, during his judgment. Why did it feel so completely wrong now?

In her haste, Adaar forgot to duck at the door leading down to the Keep, solidly hitting her staff against the frame, causing her to stumble down a couple of stairs. She thought longingly of her small house in the Free Marches, made for qunari proportions, not elven ones, where she wouldn’t have to worry about hitting her head or fitting into a seat.

“You are the Inquisitor,” she muttered to herself. If her lover was dead, he was dead. Keeping away from the truth wouldn’t change that fact. So she lifted her chin and strode down the stairs. It wouldn’t do to act like a twenty-year old, pining after their first love. She had an infant grandchild, for goodness sakes.

She ignored everyone in the Keep, training her eyes on the door that would lead her to Josephine’s office. Pushing open the door, she marched right to Josephine’s desk, before realizing the Ambassador wasn’t there.

“My lady.”

Adaar had to reach out and place her hands on the desk in front of her at the sound of his voice, feeling her heart about to burst. Once steady, she turned and looked at Blackwall.

She wanted to drink him up, discover every detail she had missed over the past three months. She wanted to tell him how much she missed him while he was gone. But instead Adaar said the only thing she could think of. “You trimmed your beard.”

Just one of several changes, she realized. He looked slimmer than she remembered, but perhaps that was due to the full set of Grey Warden armor he wore instead of a padded gambeson and chestpiece. Blackwall still had a beard, but it was trimmed close to his face and his hair no longer reached the back of his neck.

"I did," he said, his eyes not leaving hers and Adaar felt her cheeks redden under his gaze. He took a step forward. “Herah…”

Adaar couldn’t keep herself from smiling, hearing her given name from him once again. With a laugh, she walked over to Blackwall and threw her arms around his shoulders. He gripped her hips as she leaned down at kissed him.

Their kiss was hungry after three months apart and some time passed before they parted. Adaar leaned against the wall with Blackwall flush against her, resting his head on her chest while she rest her chin on the top of his head.

They stayed like that for some time, before Adaar decided to break the spell. “I missed you, Blackwall,” Adaar whispered, running her fingers through his now short hair.

He stood up straight then, his hands still holding her hips. “Thom Rainier, now,” he said.

Adaar tilted her head. Every time he had said his true name before, he sounded as if it was a curse or a burden, something better left unsaid. But now his voice sounded clear as he said his name. “Are you sure?” she asked.

Blackwall - _Thom_ \- nodded. “I am. I’m not running any longer,” he said. “Warden Rainier, liaison to the Inquisition, reporting for duty.”

The words took a moment for her to understand. “Liaison?” she asked. “Does that mean you’re staying?”

When he left for Val Chevin, she tried not to think of ‘what ifs.’ But when she indulged, Adaar’s worst fear after him not surviving the Joining would be him posted at a far off outpost, and never getting to see him. And now it seemed that all her fears were for naught.

“If you’ll have me,” Thom said, reaching up and cupping her face.

Adaar closed her eyes as he traced the scar on her cheek. There was so much to tell him, about her own feelings, the state of the Inquisition and so many questions she wanted to ask. But for now, she was content holding and being held. “Always.” 


	2. Spectacles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tumblr prompt was 'eyes.'

After the third grumble in the past ten minutes, Narrah finally put down her quill and looked over at Blackwall. 

Thanks to the awful weather, the plan had been a quiet evening in her quarters. She would catch up on paperwork while he whittled. That had been the idea anyway. 

Blackwall didn’t quite seem suited for quiet, though. While Narrah wrote letters at her desk, he had moved from one end of the sofa to the other, before finally getting up to poke at the fire. He sat on the sofa again, holding a book, but seemingly not knowing what to do with his legs. 

Perhaps she should have expected this. Their relationship was still so new, so fragile; she half expected him to run out the door yelling over his shoulder about regrets. But Narrah had lived too long and buried too many loved ones to ever worry about regrets. She would take her chances. 

Pushing her spectacles up her nose, Narrah rested her chin in her hand as she stared at him. She had no need to ask the question on her mind, surely Blackwall knew what she was thinking. So she waited. 

His eyes met hers, and Narrah found herself hiding a smile behind her fingers. Sometimes she felt more like a teenager with a crush around Blackwall than a soon to be grandmother. Maybe that was why she was so willing to look past his unwillingness to tell her a damn thing about himself. 

“Have you ever read one of Varric’s books?”

She blinked at the question, wondering why he asked, if he truly wanted to know or if he was more interested in ending the silence. “A few,” Narrah said slowly. “ _ Tales of the Champion _ and  _ Hard in Hightown. _ ” 

“He gave me a copy of  _ Hard in Hightown _ , told me it would be better reading outside of an outhouse,” Blackwall said, sounding sheepish. “Think I might have hurt his feelings when I told him that.” 

“And what do you think so far?” she asked.  _ Hard in Hightown  _ had never been a favorite. Mysteries and crime dramas had never managed to hold her interests. Romances, like the ones Cassandra favored, were more her taste. 

Blackwall held the book in two hands and squinted down at its pages. When he brought it up closer to his face, Narrah asked, “Are you having trouble reading?” 

Shaking his head, his focus on the book, he said with a grunt, “It’s fine.” 

But when he squinted again, Narrah could tell he was clearly not. She stood, being careful not to hit her knees against the top of the human-sized desk, and walked over to him. “You’re squinting,” she said.

“A man can’t squint without people questioning his actions?” Blackwall said in a huff. 

Narrah sat down next to him, close enough that their thighs touched. “There’s nothing wrong with needing glasses,” she said. “I’ve used them for the last few years. They help.” 

“Bah,” Blackwall said. “I never needed them when I was young. Makes me feel like an old man.” 

“I’m older than you and wear spectacles,” Narrah said. Void grant her from stubborn men. Her late husband had been a stubborn man, and now it looked like Blackwall was cut from the same cloth. Perhaps stubborn men was to be her lot in life. “Should I feel like an old woman? I don’t.”

She stilled as Blackwall raised his hand, resting his fingers at the base of her skull. His hands were bare and she could feel the callouses on the tip of his fingers. “You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice quiet.

When he looked at her like  _ that _ , she almost believed him. “You’re trying to change the subject,” she scolded, swatting him on the knee. Blackwall had the decency to look slightly chagrined at that. She took off her spectacles and handed them over. “They’ll be too big, but give them a try.” 

His sigh was long-suffering as he put on the glasses. “If my lady insists.” 

“She does,” Narrah said. She still hadn’t gotten used to him calling her that. Narrah was qunari, not a titled human. Yet Blackwall always said the words with such tenderness she couldn’t find fault. “Any better?”

With a side-eyed glance, Blackwall picked up the book and opened to a random page. Narrah waited patiently as he glanced down. He squinted once, then immediately stopped, before bringing the book closer to his face. 

Just when Narrah wondered if her hypothesis might be wrong, Blackwall closed the book and placed it on his lap. He took off her spectacles and studied them for a moment. “Think the quartermaster could find me a pair?”

Narrah held out her hand, silently asking for her spectacles back. Unlike him, she needed hers all of the time. Smiling, she tried not to sound too smug when she said, “I believe that could be arranged.” 


End file.
